


Organized Chaos

by fhartz91



Series: Klaine One-shots [49]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Romance, mention of past death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11424555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: Kurt comes home one night to find his husband in desperate need of his help ... but will Blaine let Kurt help him?





	Organized Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> So, I re-wrote this, playing off the idea that Blaine may also have suffered from OCD, kind of the way Kurt did, but as an extension of PTSD (seeing as the meta exists that Dalton!Blaine was actually the facade, and the Blaine we see at McKinley was the person he actually was). I based this off of my own personal experiences with OCD and PTSD. The cleaning, the disposable pens, the paper towels, and the obsession with vents, those are personal to me, as is the way Blaine's grandmother passes away.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetie,” Kurt calls, juggling his messenger bag on his shoulder, a narrow paper bag with a bottle of Riesling in the crook of his arm, and two way-too-thin plastic bags, both trying, with little success, to contain the multiple cardboard containers of Thai food inside, “but when I went to get our food, they messed up our order … again!” Kurt shuffles in, the door refusing to open more than a few inches because of something lodged on the opposite side. “I mean, I know you love Pok Pok, and I know it’s our Thursday night tradition, but I really think that … whoa …”

Kurt stops a foot inside the apartment, the door swinging shut on its own, and stares at the mess … no, the  _organized chaos_  afoot in the living room. But not just the living room. Kurt can see through the doorway that leads to the dining room, and the hallway that tangents off toward the kitchen, that the effects are far-reaching. Shelves empty, their contents relegated to the floor. Cabinets and storage closet doors left open, their insides purged, and the strong, lemon-scent of cleanser hanging in the air.

Kurt walks by perfectly constructed stacks and piles. Books from off the shelves create pillars that mark his way, and behind those, CDs, Blaine’s vinyl records, Kurt’s song books and scrapbooks. Blaine’s collection of vintage superhero action figures have been moved from the curios cabinets to the dining room table, along with Kurt’s collection of Hummel figurines (an inside joke between him and his in-laws that Blaine’s mother loves to indulge), lined up like a small army, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes, solemnly standing guard.

“Blaine?” Kurt calls, keeping his voice light, knowing what he’s most likely going to see as he rounds the corner to their bedroom. Kurt is struck by how silent the apartment is, and how dark. Blaine’s main coping tools are light and music. Every light in the place should be on and classical music playing, but there’s nothing. If not for the clutter, Kurt would be convinced that Blaine isn’t even home. “Blaine? Honey? I’m here, and I brought dinner.”

Kurt walks down the final hallway, bottle still lodged under his arm, bags clutched in his grip, towards the only room in the house glowing with light. No music, just light. This one’s bad. Kurt knows they’re in for a long night. He only hopes that Blaine will tell him what triggered it.

“Blaine …” Kurt keeps talking so he doesn’t startle Blaine, in case he’s locked in the midst of his own unreasonable thoughts. “Don’t worry. I made sure to get that spicy mustard that you like. You know, the guy behind the counter always gives me a look because he knows we use it on our lunch sandwiches and not our take out.” Kurt chuckles. It sounds unnatural. “You know, I’m surprised we haven’t been blacklisted yet for inappropriate use of condi … ments …“

Kurt’s voice trails off when he gets to their bedroom. He can’t help it. The whole room is a wreck – so much more than he expected – but in a different sense. It looks like Blaine had started doing a little … childproofing might be the right term, _if_ they had a child, one who suffered from an _extreme_ case of asthma. Just like the rest of the apartment, books and CDs are piled on the floor. The doors to the closet are wide open, and Kurt can see that every stitch of clothing has been put in a garment bag, every pair of shoes closed up in a plastic shoebox. The mattress has been stripped, along with the pillows, and everything covered in allergy-free casings. Blaine’s authentic Persian rug, the one they got on their honeymoon, is rolled up in the corner and stowed in some kind of plastic, cylindrical-shaped container. Crowded in the opposite corner, Kurt sees a collection of dust mops/steam cleaners/chamois clothes/anti-allergy surface cleaners/and the whole Lysol family from underneath their kitchen sink.

And then there’s Kurt’s husband, wearing yellow latex dishwashing gloves on his hands and a dust mask over his mouth, frantically buffing a spot on the shelf.

“Hey, babe,” Kurt says, taking a step through the door. “How’s your day been?”

“I know what you’re going to say.” Blaine doesn’t turn to look at him, but moves his dust mask down to his chin to make talking easier. He swipes the cloth down the length of the wood shelf, then zeros in on that same spot again and buffs. “But, you didn’t see it. It was filthy, alright? Everything was filthy.” He does another swipe, then moves an inch to the right. “A-and the other day, you said that you felt a tickle in your sinuses, right? D-didn’t you say that?”

Kurt doesn’t answer. It won’t change anything either way, so he stands in place and listens.

“A-and I know you’re standing there with dinner, a-and it sucks because you’re going to wait for me to be done, and then it’s going to get cold …”

“That’s alright, honey. I don’t mind.” Blaine doesn’t usually stutter. Kurt knows when that starts, he’s nearing a break. Kurt puts the bags down by the foot of the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Most of the time, the answer’s  _no_. Or  _it’s nothing_. Or  _there’s nothing to talk about_. But this time, Blaine’s hand stops. His head drops, and in his profile, Kurt can see anxiety assailing his face - wrinkling his brow, crinkling the bridge of his nose, tightening his lips in a scowl.

“I---I stopped by NYADA this afternoon to get a copy of the summer schedule for that music theory class I’m subbing,” Blaine starts. Kurt walks over and sits on their bed, as close to Blaine as he knows he can. “I’ve been emailing them about it all week, but no one’s posted a copy, so I thought, why not just go down there? It’s a nice day. I need some time out.”

“You did,” Kurt says so that Blaine knows he’s listening.

“Marlene, that lady from the financial aid office, was out today because her little boy is sick.” Here Blaine’s voice shakes, and he stops to swallow. “The exhaust system in their building was being flushed, so they had to stay at a hotel for a few days till it was done. Their building’s old and they had to convert …” Blaine stops and shakes his head, trying to move along in his story, brush away the unimportant facts from his mind. “Well, I guess some mold spores or something got into her place. Her and her husband, they’re older, they’re at work all day, but David, he’s barely one, and he’s at home with his nanny all the time. He ended up with meningitis or something awful like that, I can’t … I can’t remember. He’s on a breathing machine and he’s unconscious. And then I remembered you saying you felt a tickle, and yesterday, you were coughing. And then, you know, when my grandma got sick, right before she passed” - Blaine chokes up, and Kurt’s not sure he’ll continue, but he does. He seems to need to get this out – “but the doctor couldn’t tell what was wrong. I came home, and I saw this shelf and everything on it, and everything in the place collecting dust and God-knows-what-else. And your dad, Kurt. He’s coming next week. He just finished treatment …” Blaine shakes his head again, a single tear gathering on his eyelashes. “I know it’s clean, Kurt,” he says, his voice shaking so hard it doesn’t sound like his voice anymore. “I know it is, because it’s always clean. Because you keep it clean, and because the housekeeping service was just here, and because we don’t have any carpets” – his eyes dart to the one lone rug rolled up in its coffin in the corner – “and we keep our suits in bags, and … but what if, Kurt? What if you have meningitis? What if your dad comes and he gets something? What if you guys get sick like my grandma did, and …”

Kurt stands. He wants to reach out and put a hand on Blaine’s shoulder, but he can’t. Not yet.

Kurt misses the days when the touch of his hand could soothe his husband. Lately, Kurt feels like he can’t do anything to help.

Blaine has always been a bit of a perfectionist, all through high school and college, for as long as Kurt has known him. It was just a character trait then, a quirky part of Blaine’s personality. So maybe it seemed a little off the wall to Kurt that Blaine only owned disposable pens in even numbers, or that he organized his books and papers on his desk in right angles, or his pencils by height. When Kurt didn’t understand Blaine’s coping mechanisms, they were just another thing to tease Blaine over, and for Blaine’s part, the teasing didn’t seem to bother him. He used it as an excuse to tease back - to instigate tickle fights or pull Kurt over his knee and spank him.

Blaine developed one or two more “quirks” after he and Kurt moved in together – alphabetizing the canned goods in the kitchen cabinets, and turning them so their labels faced front. Kurt had considered once messing with the cans when Blaine wasn’t looking, since it had never been an issue before. But without even understanding this fixation with order, Kurt felt it was too cruel.

It didn’t become a big deal until a few years ago, when Blaine’s grandmother, one of Blaine’s favorite people in the world, died of pneumonia. It hit her kind of out of the blue. She’d already had a compromised immune system from a bout of the flu so severe that it put her in Cedars-Sinai. Blaine had been the one to sign his grandmother out of the hospital, even though he told Kurt later that he had a nagging feeling that something else was wrong. Blaine had been the one to stay the week at his grandmother’s house, taking care of her. And Blaine had been with her the night they rushed her back to the hospital, when she stopped being able to breathe, when liquid filled her lungs so quickly no one could do anything to stop it.

The night she passed away.

Blaine felt that he could have done something more, he could have anticipated it. That he should have said something the first time he felt uneasy with her care.

After the funeral, that’s when whatever dam in his head that kept things locked away exploded. That’s when the episodes started. The night terrors. That’s when the compulsive repetitive behaviors became more exaggerated. Blaine seems absolutely fine most of the time – teaching at NYADA or when they’re out having dinner with friends. His tells are relatively minor things. His need to use exactly three paper towels to dry after he washes his hands. Counting the sweetener packets on the table at the restaurant to ensure that there are an equal number of sugar to Sweet ’N Low to Splenda. Turning the lights on and off two times before he leaves a room. These are things that most people they know ignore. They’re not blaring. They don’t scream obsessive compulsive disorder to someone who doesn’t recognize them.

Things like this, though – this intense, manic cleaning - Blaine does in quiet, where only Kurt gets to see.

Kurt doesn’t try to tell Blaine that it’s okay, because in Blaine’s mind, it’s not okay, and Kurt has no intention of belittling his husband’s feelings.

“What do you need me to do?” Kurt asks.

Blaine pauses, his shoulders rigid. Kurt waits for Blaine to dismiss him, the way he always does. Because Kurt can’t help him. Because Blaine doesn’t like Kurt to see him this way. Because this compulsion he has that he can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries, becomes so sickening inside of him that the moment Kurt leaves the room, he’ll most likely start dry heaving.

But this time around, he turns his head halfway to meet Kurt’s eyes, and Kurt feels his heart stop.

“Could you … maybe … help me?” Blaine asks, finally looking over his shoulder.

Kurt smiles – it’s weak, and he’s sure his exhaustion shows, but it’s a smile Blaine knows is just for him.

“Sure,” Kurt says. “What do you need help with?”

“Th-the books?” Blaine says with a sniffle. He glances over his other shoulder to a stack of books from the shelf, their immaculate leather covers waiting their turn to be dusted. “Would you mind … dusting the books?”

Kurt feels the answer catch in his throat, and he doesn’t want it to. He doesn’t want Blaine to think that he’s anything other than completely and utterly happy that he’ll finally let him help.

“Of course. Anything.” Kurt points to a reserve cleaning cloth on the bed. Blaine sees Kurt’s hand reaching and nods, giving him permission to take it.

Kurt picks up the top book on the pile –  _A Tale of Two Cities_  – and wipes down the covers, the binding, and the gold edge of the pages, while Blaine watches. Kurt lifts his eyes to look at Blaine, to make sure he’s dusted the book to Blaine’s satisfaction. Blaine extends an arm and takes the book. He puts it on the shelf and Kurt reaches for another.

One by one, Kurt dusts the books, then hands them to Blaine, who returns them to the shelves, and together, they slowly put Blaine’s peace of mind back together.

 


End file.
